


he ate my heart and then he ate my brain

by themadnutter



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Dry Humping, Frottage, M/M, Mentions to past torture, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 12:10:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14748609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themadnutter/pseuds/themadnutter
Summary: “Hey, Oswald.”It’s the hushed coo of his name that gets Oswald’s attention.  He peers over his shoulder, can just barely make out Jerome’s hand on the vent and those awful, pretty eyes that focus on Oswald without wavering.“Come down here.”--Wrestling with the traumatic memories of his last stay in Arkham, Oswald finds a comforting routine in Jerome.





	he ate my heart and then he ate my brain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thejizzler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejizzler/gifts).



> i wrote most of this fic at the start of 4b, and i found it in my draft folder tonight and figured i'd finish it. thank you to everyone who has supported my fanfics so far, i appreciate each and every one of you! <3

Oswald detests every single iota of Arkham Asylum: the food, the walls, the constant need to watch his back, the people -

And he really, really hates the _screaming_.

It’s late at night (so Oswald assumes - he can add ‘losing track of time’ as another hated aspect of this prison sentence), and no less than three inmates are _shrieking_ at the top of their lungs, a ghoulish, nonstop cacophony.  There’s no point in even trying to sleep, and so he’s holed himself up in the back corner of his room, his good leg pulled to his chest and his arms wrapped around himself, like this will somehow protect him from the caterwauling.  A dull pain thuds behind his eyes, a headache in the making (and he’s already in so much pain, no medicine to offer a reprieve, and _why does the pain never end_ ).

But the true horror in the screaming lies not in the insomnia, or the pain, but in the images that flash through his mind -

_The faux-soothing tone of Strange’s voice, the cold kiss of metal pinning him in place, the white-hot pain of Strange’s horrid machines, how he screamed and begged until his throat was sore for days as his mind was torn apart -_

“Just awful, isn’t it?”

The sudden voice makes Oswald jump, breaking free from the traumatic replay with a gasp.  When it hits him just _who_ it is, Oswald’s head lolls to the side, thunks against the wall. _Splendid._

He turns to the vent beside him, squints a weary look down at his neighboring cellmate.  Even in the shadowed light, Oswald can see Jerome leering up at him, face twisted into an unnatural grin as he sways back and forth in hypnotic rhythm.  He almost expects those unblinking eyes to glow, a haunting image of a monstrous predator lying in wait, watching its prey from the murky depths below. He resists the urge to shiver.

“What do you want?” Capturing Jerome’s interest at this late hour _can’t_ lead to anything good, Oswald knows this.  He curls in on himself again, tries to disappear from sight (from his mind).

Jerome sways and sways, humming in a way that sounds more like a feline growl than human.

“Don’t be afraid,” Jerome croons, danger wrapped around every purred syllable and Oswald sorely wishes he could punch him. “You’ll get used to it.”

Oswald bites his lip hard, tastes the fresh welling of blood.  He wants to spit in Jerome’s face that _no, I will not get used to it, I did not get used to it then, I won’t get used to it now, especially not when -_

 _The jolt of electricity setting his skin aflame, and he couldn’t breathe, he_ **_can’t breathe -_ **

“Easy,” Jerome murmurs.

Oswald sucks in a breath, gasping like he’s resurfaced from Gotham river all over again, cold and injured but _alive_.  Only now does he realize how badly he started shaking, how tightly he clenched his fists until he tore into his skin.  Turning back to Jerome, he meets those animal-wild eyes again, bright and curious even in the darkest hour.

“I’m fine,” Oswald insists.  He wants to add _go away_ ; his tongue is too clumsy to shape the letters.

Jerome purr-hums again, falls still.  Oswald’s heart rate rises, tell-tale heart pounding loudly enough that half of Arkham must hear him, must smell his weakness from a mile away.

“You can always come down here, if you like,” Jerome says, and Oswald can hear the grin in his voice. “It’s muuuch better.  Quieter. Etcetera.”

It wouldn’t be the first time Oswald slid down the vent to join Jerome in his room - but those are saved for plotting discussions only, and exclusively in the light, where he can keep an eye on Jerome at all times.

Somehow, he doesn’t think that listening to the monster under his bed is a good idea.

“I’ll pass,” Oswald grits out, stern enough that he hopes conveys that this conversation is over.

Another piercing wail.  Oswald squeezes his eyes shut, counts to five.  There’s a shuffle from below; Jerome is moving away.

“Suit yourself.  But Ozzie,” Jerome says, “let me know if you change your mind.  I think you’d like it down here.”

A last hint of a laugh rings in the air, fading away into the chorus of screams.

Oswald burrows into himself, pressing his bruised body against the wall.

He doesn’t sleep.

\--

Another night, another wailing song of pain and madness.

Oswald has retreated to his corner, blearily glaring at the door with all the remaining energy he can muster.  He’s tired down to his bones, and every time he nearly nods off - he’s jerked awake by someone gurgling to themself in a language Oswald doesn’t understand.

“Ohhh, Ozzie.  We _have_ to stop meeting like this.”

He doesn’t even bother moving to look at Jerome; he just grunts, gives Jerome the attention he apparently craves.

“It’s the new girl, you see.  First time in the slammer. Still thinks mommy is going to save her,” Jerome says, _laughs_ like listening to a woman howl for three hours is a hilarious pastime that he can’t get enough of.

“Then she gets ol’ Kevin three cells down in a tizzy,  and woo,” Jerome cackles, bangs on the vent, “we got ourselves a real party.”

Oswald grunts, his sole contribution.

There’s a beat of silence, then a wave of frantic murmuring and angry curses, and Oswald is so exasperated he could cry.

“Hey, Oswald.”

It’s the hushed coo of his name that gets Oswald’s attention.  He peers over his shoulder, can just barely make out Jerome’s hand on the vent and those awful, pretty eyes that focus on Oswald without wavering.

“Come down here.”

It isn’t a question, not even an _offer,_ really.  It feels like a command, and Oswald hates that something within him wants to respond to Jerome’s call, wants to allow himself to be wanted, coveted, protected.

“Don’t want to,” he grumbles, remains strong.

“Come on.  We’ll have ourselves a little sleepover.”

“No.”

Another wail, and now there’s another voice (deep, masculine, _angry)_ booming down the hallways, threats of violence spewed, and Oswald sags against the wall again.

“One night, a little shut-eye - what do you have to lose?”

 _Everything,_ Oswald internally grouses.

But.

Maybe it’s his sleep deprivation, or the fresh wave of screams, or the gleam in Jerome’s eyes, but Oswald finally relents, “Fine.”

“That’s the spirit.”  
  
Jerome makes quick work of opening the vent with his makeshift shank, and only when Oswald peers down into the black abyss of Jerome’s room does he think twice.  What if it’s a trap? What if he lands in a pile of knives and is impaled? What if Jerome knocks him out the second he hits the floor?

“Don’t keep me waiting,” Jerome cooes, lilting and deadly, every bit a siren song, promising a watery grave.

Oswald counts to three, braces himself, slides down -

\- and right into a pair of waiting arms.

With a gasp, Oswald instinctively wraps his limbs around Jerome, who holds him without a struggle, like Oswald weighs nothing (and isn’t that a thought, Oswald’s cheeks flush).  Pressing his forehead against the collar of Jerome’s uniform, Oswald feels more Jerome’s responding laugh rather than feeling it.

“See?  Wasn’t so bad.”

Jerome walks Oswald back to the bed, deposits him onto the scratchy sheets without fanfare.  The bed creaks when Jerome slithers beside Oswald, those watchful eyes never leaving him as he lies down and faces him, and for a moment Oswald is certain this is how he’s going to die.  But then Jerome stretches out, gives a lazy yawn, nuzzles into his pillow.

It’s so intimate, so _normal_ , that Oswald can’t stop himself from openly staring.  He’s so used to seeing Jerome covered in blood, reeking of violence and disaster, that he somehow believed Jerome would look the same even in slumber.  But sleepiness softens the scarred edges of his face, dulls the sharpness to his gaze, reminds Oswald that they all started out human, once.

His train of thought breaks when there’s another scream, and Oswald’s relieved when it sounds so much more muted.

“I thought you’d like the screaming,” Oswald finds himself saying as he rolls to his side, back facing Jerome.  He can feel Jerome’s eyes on him, burning into the back of his skull. “Chaos and all that.”

Jerome snorts.

“That? Little bird, that isn’t _chaos_.”

In a flash Jerome has shuffled closer, the distance between them all but obliterated as Jerome presses flush against him, mangled lips against the shell of Oswald’s ear.  “Can’t you hear? It’s _anguish_.  It’s _surrender._ ”

A rush of warmth sparks with each soft breath puffed against Oswald’s ear, and he’s frozen in place, acutely aware of every point where they’re touching.  He should squirm away, but he _can’t_ , a fly caught in a warm, dangerous web, and _this is surrender, this is surrender._

“Remember, Oswald - even when you’re down for the count -”

Jerome’s fingers trace across Oswald’s chest, one rib over the next, like he’s searching for the best place to slide in a knife.

“...never let them see it.”

Fingers curl into claws, dig into Oswald’s chest to hold him close, and all Oswald can do is exhale a sigh-moan-whimper that has Jerome chuckling against his ear, nosing along the nape of his neck.

“That’s what makes us different, you see.”

Oswald wants to say that no, he doesn’t see, but he trusts the conviction in Jerome’s voice and the power in his embrace, and surely that must mean something.  All he can manage is a murmur, and the arm around him tightens.

He’s asleep before he can say goodnight.

\---

They don’t discuss it the next day.

Oswald untangled himself from Jerome’s embrace and snuck back to his room without a word, and that was that.  He writes it off as a one-off, something stupid he permitted himself for once and never again. Jerome doesn’t talk about it, so Oswald assumes the feeling is mutual.

But that night, and every night for the next week, Jerome’s at their shared vent.

Oswald finds himself sitting in that cramped corner of his cell every night, listening to the screams echo off the hallways, waiting for a reprieve in whatever form it may take.

He only perks when there’s that breathless, singing of his name.

“ _Oswald._ ”

He almost catches himself smiling, lips tugging upward.

“ _Come down_.”

Some nights, Oswald refuses, wanting his own space, and he curls up alone and pretends  that his tiny bed doesn’t feel empty for reasons he won’t explain.

Other nights, he relents - allows Jerome to catch him, pull him into bed, lull him to sleep with bedtime stories of beheading Gotham’s finest and painting the town red, _you and me, Ozzie_.

Tangled up with Jerome, in the eye of the hurricane; even his nightmares keep their distance.

\--

It’s like clockwork.

“ _Wanna come down?_ ”

Oswald’s worn out, more than usual - the mere act of survival is taxing, and even though Oswald is good at what he does, it wears on him, grinds his bones to dust.  So when he sees Jerome peering up at him like a crocodile, all eyes and hidden, hungry teeth, Oswald doesn’t put up a fight.

He’s just getting settled against Jerome’s chest when the commotion starts from down the hallway - a loud crash, followed by confused voices that quickly turn to a shouting match, and Oswald muffles an annoyed groan into Jerome’s pillow.

Jerome shuffles closer, and _oh_.

It isn’t the first time that Jerome’s been hard during their ‘sleepovers’, but Oswald has only noticed it when he’s woken up in the middle of the night and Jerome was fast asleep.  Now, they’re both _awake_ , and it’s not like Oswald can just shuffle away with a blush and will himself back to sleep.  

His heart’s in his throat, body tense.  He tells himself to relax before Jerome notices anything, but Jerome laughs a moment later, and Oswald squeezes his eyes shut, caught.

“Relax.  It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Jerome says, hints of barbed-edged humor.

There’s a heaviness in the silence that follows, one that crawls across Oswald’s skin and makes his heart beat double time - because there’s something left unsaid, tangible like a thick fog he could choke on.

Heart pounds, and Oswald finds himself voicing the unspoken word, “Unless.”

He can feel Jerome smile against his neck, all jackal and grime.

“Unless,” Jerome agress, lips brushing Oswald’s skin, making him shiver, his mouse-heart beating rapidly.

He shouldn’t.  He’s already given Jerome too much ground, too much of _himself_  when there is so little remaining in the first place these days.  Preservation instincts tells him he may not survive Jerome’s affection; pride tells him he can do better than the resident, crazed gingersnap; his old, aching heart tells him that maybe there can be safety and comfort found in this man and his bear-trap touch.

His mind wars with his heart, an age old battle, and through it all, Oswald wonders how the King of Arkham kisses.

Oswald opens his eyes, exhales the breath he’s been holding.   _This is surrender._

He rolls onto his other side with calm, deliberate ease, until he can peer up into Jerome’s eyes, dark with desire and edged with curiosity.  Furrowing his brows, Oswald licks his lips and tries to sound authoritative when he says, “Kiss me.”

A gloved hand cups his cheek, and then Jerome’s lips are covering his in a rough, bruising kiss that feels equal parts a staked claim and lustful need.  Oswald gasps, lets Jerome lick into his mouth and scratch down Oswald’s cheek, hand resting at his neck, against his rabbit-quick pulse. _Danger_ , his mind screams, but all images of Jerome choking him to death are overridden by the way his body responds to Jerome’s touch, skin aflame as he wraps an arm around Jerome, drags him closer, closer.   _You’re a fool_ , his mind insists, but Jerome’s lips are walking kisses down Oswald’s cheek and jawbone, and Oswald can only tilt his head back, give Jerome all that he wants and then some.

If the inmates are screaming, Oswald can’t hear them at all; here, there is only the dark space of safety, the flush of their bodies pressed together, and a deep-seated satisfaction of getting something he’s always wanted, a secret he’s kept from himself for so long.

Oswald surges forward, kissing Jerome with a newfound confidence and hunger that leaves Jerome laughing in surprised delight, showing his appreciation by squeezing Oswald’s ass until he earns a moan.  Jerome grins, breathless, grinding his hips against Oswald’s so he can feel every heated inch of Jerome’s cock, and Oswald can’t muffle his cry at the sudden build of pleasure.

“You want it?” Jerome growls, his voice gravel-rough and laced with amused arousal that leaves Oswald aching in his pants even as fear grips his throat in an invisible chokehold.

Oswald balks at the lewd proposition, the filthiness of it appealing in its own way - but while Oswald _wants_ , his rational senses kick in for the first time since they started kissing, reminding him that this is all a little fast, a little much.

Jerome reads him like a book, always does, and licks Oswald’s cheek in some kind of acknowledgement of Oswald’s struggle that is far more endearing than it has any right to be.

“We can keep our clothes on,” Jerome offers, gloved fingertips splaying across Oswald’s hip, leaving trails of hot desire.

It’s a concept Oswald has never even considered before (not that he spends much of his time thinking about sex in the first place), his eyes blinking wide in surprise.  Tentatively nudging his hips against Jerome’s, he bites his lip at the small burst of pleasure born from the barest contact, a tantalizing promise of more to come, if he wants it.  And oh, Oswald thinks as he gently maps out Jerome’s facial scars with one shaking hand, watching the way Jerome’s violent edges soften - he wants it very much.

“Okay,” Oswald says with a short nod, more for his own sake than Jerome’s.

Jerome grins.  Then the next thing Oswald knows, he’s rolled onto his back, Jerome towering over him in a way that should be frightening, but only breeds an eager anticipation for what lies in store.  Positioning proves difficult given their height difference, but Jerome makes it work, draping himself over Oswald like a quilt, something warm and comforting, a shelter from the outside world.  Bending down, Jerome’s kiss is more bite than tender affection, but Oswald tilts his head up into it, chasing the painful pleasure, swallowing the drops of blood that bloom like rose petals.

The first experimental roll of Jerome’s hips has Oswald gasping, stars appearing behind his eyes as he leans into it and shuffles his hips upwards, desire trumping his awkward inexperience.  Pleased, Jerome headbutt-nuzzles his head against Oswald’s and grinds their clothed cocks together at a slow pace, building a comfortable rhythm that has Oswald whining, digging his fingers into Jerome’s prisoner stripes.  Just this alone is so good, flavors of pleasure Oswald never knew existed, each more heady than the last. He allows his head to rest limp against the rough fabric of Jerome’s pillow, bonelessly trying to give back as good as he gets.

It doesn’t take long for Jerome to find a good tempo, grinding Oswald down into the mattress in a fierce, fluid dance, as rough and untamed as Jerome himself.  The bed creaks beneath them in protest, a harsh squeaking that combines with Oswald’s litany of moans, slurred cries that seem to echo off the walls. All thoughts are wiped from Oswald’s mind, burned way and replaced with a constant prayer of _yes_ ’s and an overwhelming, intoxicating feeling of euphoria, the kind that transcends physicality and rocks him to his broken, unsteady core.  Tears prickle his eyes, threatening to spill over as he ruts harder into Jerome, friction like waves on the shore, crashing and free and uniquely them.

Body unused to touch, it’s over embarrassingly fast: his chest tightens with every twist of Jerome’s hips, every muscular ripple of Jerome’s propped up arms, every growled syllable of unintelligible pleasure.  And then Jerome fucks down _hard,_ murmurs _wanna see_ _what you look like when you come_ , and Oswald obeys with a wordless shout, body shaking from the force of it.  Jerome cackles, demonic and pleased, grinds down into the mess filling Oswald’s pants and joins him in the throes of orgasm with a serpentine hiss.

Oswald’s barely caught his breath when Jerome lets his body drop, all but crushing Oswald as he stretches with a satisfied groan.

“Jerome,” Oswald grumbles, wriggling beneath the dead weight above him.  He’s tired, sticky, and sweaty, all made worse by the similarly slick state Jerome is in.

Seemingly unbothered, Jerome yawns unnecessarily loud, smacking his lips close to Oswald’s ear. “Knew you’d look hot when you got your rocks off.”

Snuffling an embarrassed (flattered) sound against the side of Jerome’s head, Oswald manages to free himself from beneath Jerome’s sluggish body, resting on his side and eyeing Jerome carefully.  This is new territory, and he doesn’t know what a post-orgasmic Jerome is like, what he’ll want or how their dynamic may change. Even a tranquilized tiger still has claws.

Squinting at Oswald through half-opened eyes, Jerome wordlessly lifts his arm, an unspoken invitation that makes something in Oswald’s chest flip-flop.   _Danger_ , his mind quietly warns, but Oswald shushes the instinct, silently curls up close and presses his face into Jerome’s shirt.  

Somewhere above them, another inmate screams themselves hoarse.  He’s barely aware of Jerome muttering  _relax_ , and then he’s lulled to sleep by the steady heartbeat beneath his cheek.

 


End file.
